


The Roach

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Kiss, Hunters & Hunting, how else does one memori, mild flirtation to sparring to heavy angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:26:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22647124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: Since her brother's disappearance, Emori has dedicated her life to tracking down children taken by the Fae. But one day, she realizes that she might be leading the Fae directly to the barista who--though he brews a mean cup of coffee--is less than capable of defense against kindly neighbors.
Relationships: Emori/John Murphy (The 100)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 21
Collections: Chopped: Choose Your Own Adventure





	The Roach

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the Chopped: Choose Your Own Adventure challenge || Best Combined Use of Four Tropes (1st Place), Best Combined Use of Trope and Theme (2nd place)

There was no easy way of saying “yes we found her, yes it was too late”; the words tasted just as bitter on her tongue as they did at the back of her throat. But Emori said them all the same, giving the details she knew the parents would ask for, grateful Harper would be the one telling them. That was the way they worked—Emori tracked down the missing kids, Harper told the parents when they’d found them. Well, what they’d become.

Emori blew a wisp of hair away from her face, tilting her head at the setting sun through the trees. She no longer feared the woods, nor the Fae who lived in them. They left her a wide berth when she stalked through their ground, whispered on rustling leaves that she was not to be disturbed. She’d bought the name of a Fae off an Elder down the river, and his family’s, for good measure. It had cost her her hand, but she’d have given her whole arm for the look of terror in the eyes of her brother’s taker. She kept the iron blade next to her police badge in her belt, and now she prowled. 

She and McIntyre took the cases the rest of the department didn’t want to waste their time with, cases that looked like dead ends and unanswered questions. Some riddles answered themselves, if you looked in the right places, and Emori knew that even the worst answers were better than the wondering. 

Wind whipped around her, birds quieted as the sun faded, and Emori picked her way out of the woods. As the trees began to thin and she heard the distant sounds of the city, Emori veered from the path she’d trod in the underbrush, towards the sounds of straggling cars rushing by. When she broke out onto the road, she checked her bearings; not half a mile up the winding road stood a lone building. 

The Roach. 

The first time she’d stumbled by, she’d thought it was a pub. One of those curious places that cropped up at the beginning and end of civilization, with liquor older (and somehow even more rancid) than the mold on the roof, grime thick on the windows. Turned out, it was a coffee shop. It was a curious place, though, perched in the middle of nowhere. Unless you knew it wasn’t nowhere, but a very intentional somewhere—at the edge of the woods. 

Some people called it rural superstition, others religion, others coincidence, but everyone for hundreds of miles agreed: bad things happened to people who fell asleep in the woods. 

Disappearances were a lot less frequent, now that people could get a last-ditch caffeine hit before they ventured across through the thick trees. 

As twilight gave its last salute and darkness descended, Emori pushed open the door at The Roach. 

She wasn’t surprised to find the place was empty; even armed with espresso, few began their journey at evening. The maple floorboards sank under her step, creaking under her combat boots and Emori shrugged off her jacket, draping it over the arm of a once-emerald velvet couch. 

The man behind the counter was familiar, the owner, Murphy Something. He was cute in the way the least-hottest member of a band is attractive, when it kind of goes over their head because they’re used to compliments being paid to everyone else. But he made a good espresso and didn’t seem too concerned when Emori traipsed into his shop with mud on her boots and blood on her arms. Which meant a lot more to her than a good jawline and blue eyes.

Although, if she were being honest, Murphy Something had both.

And he was the closest thing she had to a friend these days.

He looked up when more boards creaked under her boots, and nodded up in an acknowledging salute. “Officer Em.”

Emori bit the inside of her mouth. She wasn’t one for nicknames, and no one else shortened her name, but the man never accepted her correction. 

“Morris,” she said, on principal.

She heard a cough that might’ve been a laugh. “Catch the bad guys, today?”

“I’ll take a double espresso,” she said, instead of answering.

Murphy whistled. “I’m sorry.”

Emori shrugged, easing herself onto a stool at the bar. “Part of the job.”

Murphy didn’t say anything, turning from the register to the espresso machine. There was the grating sound of beans being ground, the hammering as he fit the grinds into the portafilter, and the release of steam as it began filtering. 

Emori closed her eyes and rolled her neck, thinking back on the day. The days were rare when she recovered a child, someone who was taken. More often than not, she found them after the Fae were done, gruesome and awful sights that turned her stomach and set her resolve to do better, be faster, next time. Every time, she saw her brother.

Otan had been fourteen.

He’d been practicing for soccer tryouts, trying to bounce the ball off his knees a hundred times in a row.

Emori had rolled her eyes when he’d messed up after getting to ninety twice in a row, and gone inside to get a water bottle; when she’d come back out, the soccer ball was lying in the grass and her brother was gone.

The police came by, asked her questions as if they’d done it a hundred times, and sighed, then left again. 

It was decided that Otan had wandered into the woods and gotten lost.

Emori had refused to accept that, explained that he would’ve told her, or that he would’ve taken the soccer ball, or waited for water, but no one listened.

Her parents never listened.

In a way, it was almost better. Emori carried him with her, undisturbed, remembered him as much as she could. He’d been taller than her, even then, and she wore his sweaters until they were threadbare. She promised, every night, that she’d find out what had happened.

When she received her high school diploma, she’d walked off the stage, past her classmates and straight to the Police Department, and signed up; that was ten years ago.

Ten years of finding children and not finding them, and telling Harper and Harper telling parents and each time wishing she could send herself back in time to help Otan. Or at least find answers and send them back to a younger version of herself.

Emori heard ceramic clattering in front of her and opened her eyes to Murphy setting a mug on the bar. Only it wasn’t her requested espresso, it was a mug the size of the bowl, with chocolate shavings in the teacup, and resting over toasted marshmallows. They were the homemade kind, thick and light and pillowy, not the plastic that came in bags from the grocery store, and Emori meant to say that she didn’t order a hot chocolate, but what came out was, “Did you make the marshmallows yourself?”

As surprised as she was, Murphy seemed even more so. But then a smile stretched one side of his mouth, and he shrugged casually. “Uh, yeah. Gotta pass the late night shift somehow.”

Come to think of it, he was always working late night. 

Emori pulled the mug in front of her, considering it. “Aren’t there supposed to be struggling college students who’ll take the graveyard shift?” 

Murphy shook his head. “None who are struggling hard enough to take a job in this neck of the woods.”

“Pun intended?” 

“Sure.”

Emori lifted a finger and poked at the marshmallows on the top of the mug, and Murphy’s footsteps faded as he walked back down the bar.

“Let me know how it is?”

Emori looked back up; if she didn’t know better, the man looked almost nervous. As soon as he realized she was looking, an easy smile chased the look off his face. “Or, you know, don’t,” he said casually. “It’s just that I don’t serve much chocolate.”

She supposed he wouldn’t. Most people probably just pulled in for as much espresso as they could. She lifted the mug, held it for a moment in a mock cheers, and then sipped. 

It was divine. 

Everything chocolate was supposed to be—the comfort when it’s snowing outside, the consolation after a fight, the indulgence you feel you earned because you ran a marathon last weekend, sweet and warm and wonderful. 

“Damn,” she said, looking back at Murphy.

And she was wrong. He hadn’t smiled before, maybe a grin or smirk or something inane, for anyone, because now he was smiling, and it was like sunshine had burst in the middle of a coffee shop in the middle of the woods in the middle of Fae territory. It was the most beautiful thing she’d seen, or really the only beautiful thing she’d seen, in the weeks and months of forests and hunting and limbs and knives wiped on her jeans, and hard calls and telling herself it was fine. 

“Really?” he asked, and Emori shook herself internally. It was chocolate, chocolate and a nice smile, nothing to be breathless over.

And homemade marshmallows, just for fun.

“Really,” she said quickly. “I’ll even forgive you for not bringing my coffee.”

Murphy snorted. “The espresso’s in there; it’s a mocha.”

She hadn’t even tasted it. 

Emori curled her fingers around the mug, sipping at the indulgent drink. It didn’t make up for the day, but it was a start.

“You’ll get ‘em next time.”

He said it so quietly that Emori didn’t realize that Murphy was talking to her, but then it registered. She looked up sharply to find him leaning against the counter, his back to her, but a strange expression visible in his profile.

She wondered what it would do to a man to know he was the last person a missing person saw. Then dozens of missing persons. 

“Them?” she asked warily. Everyone was suspicious of the woods, but people didn’t often come out and blame the Fae, even if they knew what Emori did. 

“Them,” Murphy shrugged. “Cartel, mob, crazy teens, whoever else you’re chasing down for the people who were too slow to get away.”

In a way, she envied him the naivety of not believing. 

“Thanks,” she said, wishing it didn’t sound hollow. Her job wasn’t to catch, it was to track. She’d only killed one of them, and that was quid pro quo, for Otan. The rest, she didn’t really have claim to, and the only Ones she caught were the weak or old...and if she retaliated against them, just for the crime of being other, she figured that meant she was just as bad as they were.

Murphy seemed to be waiting for her to say something more, but she didn’t. Just took another long sip of the mocha.

“How do you know they won’t come for you,” he asked. “Instead of the other way around?”

“They’re more the running type than the stalking,” Emori said, picking at the chocolate melted around the rim of the mug. “That’s my job.”

She felt Murphy’s eyes on her, but she didn’t look up. 

“You’re really not worried about them,” he said, and his voice sounded almost like he was jealous.

Emori didn’t know a way of saying she could take care of herself that didn’t sound like it was something out of a straight-to-digital movie, so she shrugged.

Then she paused.

So, she could take care of herself. 

But she’d be willing to bet her marshmallow-making barista could not. 

Emori looked up at Murphy. “Can I try something?”

“What?”

She set her coffee down, waving a hand nonchalantly. “Nothing crazy, promise.”

Murphy shrugged. “Sure. Are we talking like—”

Emori reached across the table grabbed Murphy’s wrist, stood, and twisted; Murphy catapulted towards the bar as his arm wrenched up behind him and Emori let go just before his cheek hit the bartop. 

“Damnit,” she muttered.

Murphy jumped back up, feeling his wrist, staring at her in shock. “What the—”

“You said I could, okay, and if I can do that to you,” Emori walked towards the door, flipping the switch that changed the neon sign from Open to Closed, “they’ll do much worse. Come on.”

“Come where?”

“Hypothetically,” Emori squinted at the ceiling, wondering the least she could say, “if the people I’m after were to switch things up and come after me, they’d come here.”

Murphy blinked. “Why?”

“Because I come here a lot.”

She tried to say it casually, but it really wasn’t. A look that was almost smug passed over Murphy’s face. “And here I thought I must be imagining that.”

Emori rolled her eyes, and opened the door, gesturing. “Come on, would you?”

To his credit, Murphy processed it pretty quickly, and admitted defeat even faster. He was grumbling something to himself, but Emori was too busy trying to convince herself that teaching him self-defense would be enough if the Fae ever did come for her to decipher what he was saying. She held the door open and Murphy followed her into the darkness.

Huh. 

Interesting that he wasn’t even a little bit afraid of it; even people who were only conversationally superstitious thought twice about the woods. 

Then again, he’d almost let her slam his head into his bar, so maybe she wasn’t dealing with the sharpest tool in the shed.

Or maybe he just trusted her.

Emori wanted to roll her eyes again, at herself this time. “Okay. Self-defense 101, courtesy of the Arkadia Police Department’s finest, yours truly.”

“Okay, so what, fisticuffs?” Murphy lifted both hands jokingly, rocking back and forth like he was a boxer from the 1940s. 

“What, you think someone’s gonna come out of the woods and smack you with a glove?” She stepped towards him, fisted the front of his shirt and pulled. “If someone has you here,” she pulled a little harder, and he stumbled, “first thing is to break that hold. Otherwise you’re kind of just swinging there.”

Murphy looked like he wanted to protest, but he made a miming motion like he’d go for her elbow.

“That won’t break the grip. Right hand across, over mine, wedge it by my pinky, that’s anyone’s weakest finger. Wrench down and away, use your shoulder, lean into it.”

Murphy’s brow furrowed, and he looked down at her. “Do you always fight with rings on?

Emori followed her gaze to her hand, an iron ring on each finger. She did always keep them on; the iron kept the Fae at bay, but even though they were mostly decoration, she supposed they weren’t the most delicate things, and she imagined they could catch and scratch fairly easily. 

“I won’t scratch you. Come on, try.”

He did. It was slow and it was weak—he definitely wasn’t trying to hit back—but it worked. 

Emori nodded, letting go. “Good. Try again.” 

She reached for his shirt, allowed him to execute the move, throwing his shoulder against her hand and loosening her grip. “Good,” she let go. “Again.”

She stepped in again, grabbed his shirt, but when Murphy tried to follow the move she’d given him, she swung her opposite elbow. She wasn’t actually fighting so she barely caught his jaw, but she hoped he’d catch on that the point was to learn, not just memorize. 

“Again,” she said, letting go.

This time, she stepped fast and he grabbed her just as quickly. When he turned his shoulder, he kept his grip on her hand, twisting her arm so she was bending. On instinct, Emori bent with her arm, using the difference in height to her advantage, and swept a leg behind Murphy. 

Because he was still holding her arm she caught him before he fell, but she smiled when she steadied him. “Good.”

Murphy flexed his hand a bit. “Again?”

“Again.”

She grabbed, he wrenched, but this time he pushed her away instead of letting her get the leg sweep in.

She nodded. “Again.”

This time, when she stepped in, she feinted for the shirt, but reached further, her fingers closing around his throat. “Lesson number one,” she said, squeezing a bit for emphasis, not injury, “don’t think you know what’s coming unless you know what’s coming.”

She let go and stepped back. “Okay. It’s a lot harder to break free when someone’s hands are on your neck, so I’ll show you.”

Murphy blinked. “You want me to…?”

“Yes, come on.”

He looked a little uncomfortable, but he stepped towards her. When his fingers closed around her throat, Emori lifted her right arm. 

“Right forearm to the crook of your elbow, and for you, your left hand would support, just link them here,” she said, lifting her left hand to show. Her mobility was limited with those fingers, but the visual still stood. “So link your hands, and in one motion, break down the elbow, hips drop, and step away.”

She threw her weight, Murphy’s arm caved, and she stepped back, free.

Murphy nodded.

She tried the chokehold, and he executed as she’d instructed. 

The third time she tried, she didn’t let go so easily. She saw Murphy struggle, the internal dialog of not wanting to hurt her, needing to breathe, but wanting to learn.   
There it was. 

He wrenched his arms down and her grip broke. As she dropped, she felt his hand on the back of her neck, and then his weight shifted; she recognized it. Before he could bring up his knee, Emori twisted backwards, into the hand behind her neck. Murphy’s balance wavered, Emori planted her feet and then dropped. Murphy’s arm twisted against her weight and he yelled as he felt it in his elbow. 

Emori rolled and grinned when she came up. “You were going to kick me.”

“You were going to choke me.”

She cocked her head. “You’ve been holding out one me.”

Murphy blew out a quick breath. “Ah, people do crazy things when someone’s hands are around their throat.”   
Emori narrowed her eyes; that wasn’t true. People panicked, people flailed, people didn’t know to drop their weight and knee someone else in the chest. 

Maybe this was what she needed.

After the day she’d had, and the series of days, just a release, a chance to swing at someone who would swing back, instead of vanishing like a figment in the woods. 

“Again?” Murphy asked.

“Again.”

They went like that for a while, Emori teaching a move, Murphy slowly learning it, trying it, and finally using it when she pushed him. A little longer, and they were just sparring; she would strike and he would counter and then she’d strike again.

He didn’t attack.

She didn’t know when she noticed it, but he never went to attack her, just disarm. Get her to let go of him, put some distance, but it was unnerving. And so Emori pushed him farther. 

They were breathing harder.

In the dim light from the windows of the cafe, dodging punches and jumping over each other, arms swinging and hands grasping, and Emori realized it was raining. She hadn’t remembered it on the forecast, but lightning was crackling and the rain felt cooling and she pushed harder. 

Witching weather, she’d heard it called. 

The kind of electricity that meant energy, where the water was rejuvenation and the air was snapping before lightning struck, where the thunder roared from hearts before it echoed in the heavens.

It filled her. 

She advanced on Murphy, willing him to rise too, fight back, lash out; he stumbled. She kept going, swung again, and he fell, and she pulled back her arm—

“Emori.”

She froze. 

It was like the weather had turned on her. The sky that had cracked was now suspended, the air that was crisp was now thick enough to still her arm, the thunder that rolled was foreboding, and commanded her heart to beat at its pace.

It broke.

Whatever it was, that hold, that impossible hold in the storm snapped and Emori gasped. She collapsed to the ground, heart pounding, mind racing. 

Murphy scrambled up, racing over to her. 

“I didn’t mean, I’m so sorry, I—”

She blinked up at him, blue eyes wide, red welts in his skin from her rings…

Emori’s heart stopped. His hair was dry. Her rings should’ve left scratches, not welts. He was apologizing...

Because he’d said her name.

She bolted upright, pushing herself to her feet, away from him, arms raised.

He’d said her name and she’d been unable to move, his skin was marked with burns from the iron, and the storm wasn’t settling on him.

“You’re one of them,” she said, voice shaking. “You’re one of the Fae.”

There was a flash of lightning, then the sky was entirely dark. No thunder rumbled, no flashes of lightning, just the steady downpour of rain and Murphy pushed himself to his feet.

“I am,” he said.

The rain pounded the pavement and Emori knew she should be thinking any of a thousand things about the fact that she’s just gone hand to hand with a Fae, but her mind was reeling with the fact of how easily she could’ve killed him. Just held her ringed fingers against his skin a little longer, slipped out the knife from her belt, it only would’ve taken a prick to cripple him.

“I could’ve killed you.”

“Wouldn’t blame you.”

Emori blinked through the rain. That wasn’t what she meant; she hadn’t been trying to, and she wasn’t lamenting the missed opportunity. Just shocked at his audacity. 

“You know what I do,” she said after a moment.

“Again,” Murphy shook his head, “I wouldn’t blame you.”

A Fae who understood her working against the folk, who wasn’t cursing her on sight, or whisking her back to the glen...

“Why are you here?” Emori asked.

The rain fell harder, and thunder rumbled somewhere.

“They kicked me out.”

“They don’t kick people out,” Emori said, blinking against the water, heavy on her lashes. “There’s no such thing as vanquished; there’s the Fae and the dead.”

“And me,” Murphy lifted his head, skin shining. “There’s me.”

Emori shook her head. “Why let you live?”

“Balance, propriety, knowledge…” Murphy scoffed. “Pick your reason. I’m alive. Have been for decades.”

Emori tilted her head. “How many?”

“Almost nine.”

Emori pushed that around in her mind, trying to make sense of all of it. “So...you get kicked out of the glen, come to the edge of town, set up a coffee shop...:”

The blood drained from her face, and before she could think, she was moving. She spun, her foot catching Murphy—if that was even his name—in the chest and when he fell, she landed on top of him, her knee grounding him. The iron knife was cold in her hands, slick from the rain, pressed against Murphy’s throat. 

“That’s a new low, even for the Fae,” she seethed, her jaw throbbing from how tightly her teeth were clenched. Let him say her name, let him try, with her knife at his throat. “You’re a barista, you know everyone’s names. Every single person who passes through these woods, you learned their names; why?”

Murphy’s neck was red, blistering, and the rain split around them, falling in a domed curtain over them. He gasped, raggedly, struggling to breathe. The iron felt hot in her hand; the last time she’d held it against Fae skin had been when she gutted the man who stole her brother.

“Tell. Me.” Emori gritted.

“I—” Murphy coughed. “To...pro...tect—”

“I swear,” Emori pressed the knife tighter, and a blister near the base of it burst, “on whatever deity you value, if you say to protect the glen I will slit your throat right here.”

Murphy rasped.

The rain pounded around them, still curtaining over them, but running like a river over the pavement.

“The city,” Murphy managed. “To...protect...the city.”

Emori lifted the knife, shocked. The curtain stopped and rain poured over them; Murphy drew in a gasping breath, breathing still labored from her knee on his chest. His eyes fluttered as the rain washed over the raw skin on his neck.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” Emori said, voice flat. The knife hovered over his skin, still glowing hot, close enough that he could feel the heat of it but not close enough to burn. Even as she asked it, she knew it was the truth. It was too strong a dichotomy to be untruth.

A fae, living amongst mortals.

One who wielded names as currency, but used it to protect them.

He had her name, but let her fight him.

In between lands, in between domains, playing intercessor.

“Fae cannot lie,” Murphy said, coughing. “I protect them.”

Emori sheathed the knife, but didn’t lift her knee off his chest. “How?”

“The coffee.”

Emori’s jaw dropped. “It’s fae food? You mark them?”

Murphy nodded, though the motion looked painful with the burned skin. “They’re mine. Once they’re out of my territory, the bonds lift, but my domain is just as far as the rest of the glen. The names are extra insurance, I will them to heed no other Faerie. When they’re through the woods, the marks have lifted.”

The rain was easing, still puddling around them, but less vengeful in its falling.

Emori shifted, but Murphy stayed on the ground. He was still breathing hard, and Emori swallowed her guilt. She hadn’t known; he’d commanded her and the weather had bent to him as well…

“I’m not going to apologize for that,” she muttered.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Murphy sighed, eyes closed.

Emori stood, but he didn’t follow, and she could see his pulse hammering in his neck. She clenched her jaw.

“Okay. Come on.”

Murphy cracked an eye, looking up at her suspiciously, and Emori pursed her lips.

“That’s fair, too,” she said, and held out a hand.

Murphy grimaced, looking at it. “Iron again.”

Her rings. 

Emori looked between the metal on her fingers and the burns of the man in the ground in the rain. With her thumb, she worked the rings up her fingers, pocketing them in her jacket, and extended her hand again.

Murphy looked at her for a long moment, then took it.

He was heavy, but she was strong, and she pulled him to his feet. He swayed for a minute once standing, and Emori considered ducking under his arm to support him. But she wasn’t a nurse, she was a hunter, and his people took hers, whether or not he did anything to prevent it. So she walked ahead and opened the door.

He followed slowly.

Inside the coffee shop, Emori pulled out a chair near the door; Murphy sank into it. She supposed she could grab some water, but it had just been raining so maybe he’d had enough. Was there a potion or a poultice or something she should fetch?

No. 

That wasn’t who she was, wasn’t who he was, and given that they’d managed to fight and not kill each other already meant they were already infringing the balance of things.

She should just go.

Murphy was slumped in the chair, and Emori tried to stamp down the concern that wanted to rise in her chest as she walked by him.

“It’s fine,” Murphy said. He hadn’t looked up, but when she paused, he did. He even managed a smile. “Been through much worse, Em.”

Emori blinked. “Is that why you always call me that?”

Murphy winced, like he’d been found out. “Because it’s not your full name? Yeah. I try not to command if I don’t have to.” He coughed. “Well. And I always thought it was funny how you never liked it.”   
She didn’t like it, never had, but knowing the reason why made it a little more palatable. 

“Thank you,” Emori said quietly.

Murphy nodded. “Sure.”

There wasn’t anything else to say.

She picked her jacket off the once-emerald couch where she’d laid it hours ago, and headed out into the night. It was a long walk back to the city, but she was already drenched, so it wouldn’t hurt. 

She made it down the steps when she heard the creaking of the door opening again. She turned back, and Murphy stood in the doorway, leaning against it. The rain had faded to almost a mist, and the light from the coffee shop filtered around him like an aura.

“John,” he said.

The rain paused, hovered, then it fell colder for a moment. Something had passed, shifted, and Emori retraced her steps until she was in front of the doorway. “Why would you tell me that?”

Up close, Murphy—John— looked nervous with his decision. But he lifted a shoulder, and studied the floor intently. “I know yours,” he said. “It’s only fair.”

Emori shook her head. “You know everyone’s names, everyone’s; why are you telling me?”

John tilted his head, still refusing eye contact. “Probably for the same reason I learned to make marshmallows, knowing one day you’d come by and need one, or why I keep the shop open when no one leaves the city after 6pm, or why I’d let a mortal hold iron against my skin.”

John looked up, and Emori’s breath caught. 

She’d known his eyes were blue but now that she was seeing him, truly seeing him, she saw the sky over the treetops, the sunlight reflecting off a cobalt-winged butterfly, hyacinths blossoming on the floor of the forest. She saw the rapids swirling at the base of a waterfall, the feathered breast of a jay, fluorescent beetles scuttling over bark, and topaz glittering in basins of caves. 

“And why’s that?” she asked.

Murphy blew out a quick breath, laughing, almost. “Should be easier than this...”

“Tell me,” Emori said.

He didn’t. 

Instead, he pushed away from the door across the small porch, and Emori was glad she’d removed her rings earlier because when his hands threaded into her hair, she wound hers around his neck, and when he kissed her, nervous, she pulled him, certain. He tasted like coffee and smelled like rain and he felt like the home she hadn’t felt in years. A kiss, like a name, the simplest and most profound gift. And it wasn’t perfect, in the cold rain, bruised from their fight and years of fighting fights that weren’t theirs, but still, and suspended, and easy. 

And maybe, just maybe, a little bit magical.

**Author's Note:**

> PAIRING: memori  
> THEME: modern  
> TROPE 1: coffee shop AU  
> TROPE 2: mythical creature  
> TROPE 3: a dichotomy  
> TROPE 4: one character gives the other a gift

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [and all the stars like powdered sugar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22888189) by Anonymous 




End file.
